Last night, I spoke to a dear old friend by the name of Mark. Mark is my former roomate. He moved to Chicago a few months before I did. When I first arrived in Chicago, I was in a show before I had a place to live and Mark was kind enough to let me sleep on his couch in his un-airconditioned living room that faced one of Chicago's busiest and noisest locations, Clark Street - a block from Wrigley Field. Mark and I would later become real roomates when I moved into the house he was renting in Chicago's Roscoe Village neighborhood.

Mark and I went to Northern Illinois University together. We even shared some acting and movement classes, although I was a grad student and he was an undergrad. Mark eventually stopped acting all together. It was about the same time that my career started to rev up. While I was in London doing Showboat, he moved back to Rockford, IL to live with his mother. Now Mark is back at NIU trying to get his masters in history.

Mark, like all of my close friends, is broken. He believes he has IBS but is uncertain. He just went to the doctor last week, although he has been ill since last fall. You see, he just got insurance and couldn't afford to go before now. this pattern is too too familiar.

I miss Mark. Mark is one of the two best roomates that I ever had. The other would be my friend Heidi. Mark and I never fought. It wasn't in his nature. We could discuss anything but we just didn't argue about things. And Mark was one of the most honest people I have ever known. Mark could take criticism and not make it personal. He had an uncanny ability to hear people's subtext and intention. If he you called him on his shit, he would listen closely and respond calmly or humorously. If he thought you were full of shit, he would still listen closely and respond humorously. Everyone loved Mark. We shared everything (except men).